The man had slung his rifle, but Latimer did not move. He was listening to the fitful rustle of the trees immediately overhead. The sound reminded him of his father’s garden at home—the garden in which he had spent the happiest hours of his life. The little breeze went its way, and almost immediately a sour smell stole up from the trench. Into his fevered brain came the word “decay ... decay,” and stayed there like a drop of poison.
“Everything is strangely quiet,” he observed.
“Yes, sir,” said Morgan.
And, indeed, the silence was as heavy as the heavy air. Latimer had the curious feeling that he and his orderly were the only people in that country-side, and when a cough broke upon the stillness, he started.
“That’s number two group,” said he, mechanically; “Corporal Davies is in charge there, eh, Morgan?”
Some sickly lines of Edgar Allen Poe started up in his brain and began to race along it, repeating themselves again and again. Though he was a little worried by their repetition, they gave him a sense of romance, of power.
“We’ll start from the ravine and work upwards,” he said, stepping onto the duck-boards.
Though both officer and servant were well acquainted with those steep and winding trenches, they had to feel their way along, so black was the night, so ineffective the light of the glinting and eager stars. They came upon a group of men in a fire-bay; two of them, stretched on the fire-step, were asleep. The sentry on duty stood looking over the top of the trench; by his side was the N.C.O. in charge of the group.
“Everything all right, Corporal?” asked Latimer, in a low voice.
“Everything, sir,” whispered the corporal.